BY THE time we got on FaceTime with Carlos, it was close to eight o’clock. Once again, Dad and I were seated side by side on his couch trying to get both our faces into the frame. Carlos sat patiently still as we maneuvered the laptop. He was an exceedingly handsome man. Tan, with deep wrinkles. Two rows of perfectly straight teeth, each gleaming like a freshly-painted picket fence. Eyebrows arched like little tents above moon-shaped eyes. A long goatee, speckled gray, tapered down to just above his heart.
“You’re still as cute as a button,” Carlos said. His voice, a deep baritone, magnified his attractiveness.
Was I cute? I was pretty sure at thirteen I wasn’t cute. Frizzy hair, pimply face, bushy eyebrows weren’t exactly features I would call cute.
“I remember you and Lori Roth ordering Shirley Temples with extra cherries and twirling on the barstools, pretending to be adults drinking at the bar.”
“You have a great memory,” I said wryly, trying to conjure up spinning and role-playing but drawing a blank. Why were some memories like flashing neon lights, bright and easy to visualize, while others—like this one—dim and elusive? “So, Trudy?”
“Ah yes, sweet woman, but . . . how should I put this?” He paused, then said, “Jittery. Always seemed anxious, on edge.”
“Yes, we’ve gotten that impression from others. You mentioned you overheard an argument with Stanley Roth and Trudy Solomon that you think has relevance to the case?”
“Yes. The reason for this call! We were short-staffed in the nightclub one night, so Trudy offered to help out after her shift in the coffee shop.”
“And this was when?” Dad asked.
“I’d say late June. Definitely before July Fourth weekend. I remember because we usually didn’t get busy until that weekend, but there was some kind of convention or large group at the hotel, and we weren’t fully staffed for the summer yet.”
“Got it. Just trying to establish a time line.”
“Sure, I understand. It was the end of the night and Trudy was in the back area cleaning up and I was at the bar closing out the cash register. Mr. Roth walks in, plops down on a barstool and says, ‘Hey PR, give me a Johnny Walker Black and soda.’”
“PR?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s what he called me. PR for Puerto Rican. And, trust me, it wasn’t a term of endearment. He knew how to put people in their place. PR get me this. PR get me that. And never a tip. Cheap bastard. Anyway, he hears Trudy yell out to me that she’s almost finished. He then asks me if that’s Trudy Solomon back there and I tell him it is. He slams his drink down and stomps back there. At first I don’t hear much, but then I hear voices raised. I peek in to make sure she’s all right. Mr. Roth has his finger right up to her chin and calls her a . . . the ‘c’ word. He then tells her to keep her f-ing mouth shut. Then he storms out. Trudy was shaking like a leaf. I asked her what that was all about, and she just said it was nothing and that she had it under control. Well, it didn’t look like nothing to me. But she told me to let it go.”
“Did you ever see an incident like this again—between the two of them?”
“No. But I quit at the end of July. Mr. Roth was just too much of an a-hole to put up with. I was just starting to paint seriously then. Decided to move to the city and take some classes and check out the gallery scene.”
After thanking him for sharing this story, Dad asked him questions about a few of his murals. He had researched some of Carlos’s work and was curious about how he got started. I thought it would appear rude to get up, so I remained planted on the couch.
“I was hawking my paintings in Washington Square Park until a friend of a friend asked me to paint a mural on the side of a library building in Harlem to promote literacy. A news crew came out when it was done, and then things started to click. Commissions were slow at first, but steady enough to afford the crazy downtown rents. My big break came in 1984, when I was commissioned to paint a mural in Washington, D C, honoring the two hundred and thirty-seven marines killed in Beirut. After that, well, let’s just say, I’m not in danger of starving anytime soon. Once a PR bartender at the Cuttman Hotel working for a bigoted SOB, now a well-known muralist. Go figure. And what is Mr. Roth doing? Last I heard, drooling and losing his marbles. Y’know what that is right there? That’s karma.”
WHEN I arrived home, I found Ray perched at the edge of the recliner absorbed in Game of Thrones—a battle scene in which zombie-like skeletons were attacking a ragtag army fleeing by boat. I lingered at the threshold between the entranceway and living room, letting the scene play out. I tiptoed in and sat on the couch. He reached for the remote and hit the pause button.
“So, did you learn anything?” he asked.
“I think we now know why Trudy would have been looking for another job. She was scared of Stanley. He threatened her to be quiet about something. Maybe Stanley was trying to protect Scott. But that still doesn’t explain why she just up and left without telling anyone.”
“Perhaps you should see Stanley when you’re in Florida. You’re still going, right?”
“Yeah, we’re still heading down to get some answers out of Scott. But Stanley's got health issues, and I told Meryl I wouldn’t badger him. I’m going to stick to that promise.” For now at least.
18
Tuesday, November 13, 2018
SALLY ESCORTED Mordecai Little to a small, windowless room in the precinct, where Eldridge, Ray, Marty, and I were already assembled. Six chairs were pushed up against one wall, but I think we were all too antsy to sit. At least I know I was. Four computers—two PCs and two Macs—sat on a long table pushed up against the wall across from the door. A 65-inch television monitor hung on the wall perpendicular to the bank of computers. Ryan Beamer, our forensic tech guy, was seated in front of one of the PCs.
Mordecai shook hands with Eldridge and nodded in my direction, momentarily making eye contact. He took a seat at the computer table, pulled a laptop from his briefcase, placed it in-between two of the desktop units, then fired it up. We watched quietly as Ryan configured Mordecai's laptop to play, via Bluetooth, on the television monitor. When the two screens mirrored each other, Mordecai retook the reins and logged into his webcam feed—he refused to divulge his password to anyone, so he was in the driver’s seat. He scrolled through dates until the cursor landed on August 25, 2018.
“Ready?” Mordecai asked, glancing around—his curled payot moving to and fro as his head swiveled.
Everyone nodded and mumbled some form of yes—yeah, yup, uh-huh. He clicked on the link. He slid the time marker to eleven o’clock, around the time the boys said they showed up at the warehouse, and hit play. One car was already there, a Toyota Camry. In it, you could make out the silhouettes of Calvin Barnes, Melvin Barnes, and Wayne Railman. My hands were warm and moist, so I wrapped them around the chilled Diet Coke can in front of me. At eight minutes past eleven, they got out of the car and huddled by the trunk. They talked for about three minutes. Then Calvin stretched his arms above his head like he was warming up to exercise.
“Go back,” I shouted.
Mordecai slid the time marker slightly to the left.
“There. Right there. Stop it there.”
“Holy Toledo,” Eldridge said.
Tucked into Calvin’s jeans was what appeared to be a Glock 45-caliber pistol.
“We did not recover a Glock 45,” Marty said.
“Then where the fuck is it?” I asked.
“Mr. Little, our apologies. Please continue,” Eldridge said, shooting me a one-more-outburst-like-that-and-you’re-out-of-here look.
Wayne opened the trunk and Calvin removed a cardboard box about the size of a microwave oven, presumably filled with the drugs. Melvin lifted out a scale. Wayne pulled out the Sig Sauer P938 he shot me with and shut the trunk. Wayne whispered something in Calvin’s ear and Calvin nodded. Then they headed toward the entrance of the abandoned warehouse. Thirteen minutes later, Wayne emerged from the warehouse. He turned his back to the camera
and assumed a peeing position, the bulge of the Sig Sauer visible in his waistband. When headlights illuminated the darkness, he zipped up and sauntered back into the warehouse. Melvin then came out and leaned against the trunk of his car as a Jeep Cherokee rolled up behind it. The two buyers emerged and were led into the warehouse. The time marker read 11:33. At eleven-forty, the headlights from my Prius can be seen bouncing off the two cars as I approached. I parked my car perpendicular to the Jeep. I got out of my car but left the door wide open. I walked over to a side window and peered in. I hurried back to my car to fish my phone out of the console and called for backup. I headed back to the window to monitor the situation inside. I stood by the window for nearly five minutes. Then I crept over to the warehouse entrance.
I remembered exactly what I was thinking: They’re packing up, getting ready to leave, and backup is almost here. I can get everyone down on their bellies and keep them mollified until backup arrives. What the hell was I thinking? Me against five guys doing a drug deal. What I should have done was quietly move my car out of sight and wait. If backup failed to show before they left, I could have opened an investigation and set up a sting. Do it the right way.
Instead, now I was sitting in this stuffy room with an aching leg, sweaty palms, and a blazing headache, watching a grainy black-and-white video. A video I hoped would save my ass.
“SO NOW what?” I asked Eldridge.
“We searched that place high and low, Susan. No one found a Glock,” Marty replied.
“Well, it didn’t just disappear into thin air. And this time around, how about we search the place higher and lower,” I spat out in a tangle of desperation and anger.
“Susan, you’re not doing any searching. I’ll get the guys on that as soon as possible,” Eldridge said. “Meanwhile, Marty, you head down to Woodbourne Correctional and interrogate the hell out of Melvin and Wayne. And folks, I don’t want to be reading about this new piece of evidence in the newspaper. I will inform the sheriff, but it doesn’t go beyond that. We don’t need this leaking until we know what happened to that gun. I don’t want the void filled with conjecture.”
“What about telling Rhonda? She’s been helping drum up support for me among the BLM activists. I think it’s important she knows. She’ll keep it quiet, I know she will. If we’re going to gain her trust, I’m pretty sure holding evidence back from her is not a way to earn it. Let’s treat her like she’s on our side—because she actually is.”
“Let me think about it. But for now, mum’s the word.”
“You’re mighty quiet about this,” I said to Ray when we were alone in the room.
“Just taking it all in.”
“What do you think happened to the gun?”
“I’ve got a theory kicking around in my head.” Ray squinted and scratched at his cheek, thinking through whatever crazy idea was floating around in his noggin. “Maybe Wayne or Calvin kicked it under a stack of pallets. There were a ton of them in the warehouse at the time. Some stacked eight feet high. Maybe there wasn’t a thorough-enough search under those things. You said that Wayne ran to Calvin after you shot him. You were down on the ground at that point with your own injury. You might have missed what happened.”
I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the scene. “There was a stack of pallets about three feet to the right of Calvin.”
“There you go. And then, when Wayne and Melvin learn no Glock was found, they’re thinking you’ll get blamed for killing an unarmed teenager. Melvin’s revenge for you killing his brother.”
“Interesting theory, but the warehouse has been cleared out. If there was a gun under those pallets, someone would’ve seen it.”
“Or taken it.”
19
Thursday, November 15, 2018
THE PLANE was delayed a couple of hours due to inclement weather, pushing our arrival time at Palm Beach International Airport to two o’clock. The soupy combination of heat and humidity greeted us as we stepped out of the terminal to wait for the shuttle that would take us to the rental-car outpost.
Before takeoff, Eldridge had called to assure me that Marty would spend the next couple of days hunting down the Glock. Ray thought that even if they didn’t find the gun, the video just might be enough to fully exonerate me. Eldridge wanted as much proof as possible, which meant finding the gun and pressuring Melvin and Wayne to recant their concocted story. But when Marty went to interview Melvin Barnes yesterday, he didn’t budge from his original testimony. “Calvin didn’t have no gun.” When Marty showed him the video, Melvin shrugged and accused him of video manipulation. “That shit looks photoshopped to me. You cops know every trick in the book.” That prompted Eldridge to send the video feed to a digital forensics lab for authentication to ward off any further accusations of evidence tampering.
By the time I got to the rental counter my well-behaved curls were having a temper tantrum. I extracted an elastic hairband from my baggage and pulled my frizzy mane back in a high ponytail, where it would probably stay for the next few days.
“Cute do,” Dad said when I met him outside the men’s bathroom. “We all set?”
On our way to the Holiday Inn in Boca Raton, we rehashed our plan. Namely, how we would convince Scott to divulge what he knew. He was the keeper of two puzzle pieces—and in my estimation, the most critical pieces of information to solving this thing. First, why did he think his father killed Trudy Solomon? Second, why did he go to see Ed and Trudy in Waltham?
After checking in, we decided to get a bite to eat before heading over to Scott’s house, which was situated along the intracoastal in Deerfield Beach. We figured we had a better chance of catching him at home later in the evening, after work. Besides, after a month of ice and snow, a leisurely dinner on an outdoor patio was hard to resist. Perhaps it was the consequence of a long travel day or the heat we were not used to, but neither of us talked much during dinner. We limited ourselves to one drink, a local IPA, one of those overly hoppy brews that were all the rage. I glanced around at my fellow diners. The patrons were chic and well coifed. My old jeans and faded T-shirt made me think of that classic Sesame Street lyric, “One of these things is not like the others.”
When it was time to go, Dad grabbed the check. “This little expedition is on me. Remember?”
SCOTT’S HOUSE was lit up to the point where we thought he might be having a party. But there were no cars in his driveway or on the street in front of his house. Even the path lights, flanking a stone walkway across his lawn, were illuminated.
“Well, here goes nothing,” Dad said as he opened the car door.
I’ve done the “we need to ask you a few questions” stroll up to doorsteps hundreds of times, but this time felt different. Really different. Nerve-wracking. Stomach-lurching. Throat-tightening. My entire body was as sweaty as my palms. I swallowed hard a few times. It was all I could do to keep my shit together before coming face-to-face with someone from the Roth family. I could have just walked back to the car and let Dad do the interview. He could certainly handle this without me.
About halfway up the walkway, Dad stopped (perhaps sensing my desire to make a dash for the car). He stepped in front of me, grabbed my upper arms, and bore his eyes into mine. “Susan, you can do this. These aren’t the Roths from your youth. They hold no power or superiority over us anymore.” I nodded perfunctorily. He released my arms and we continued up the walkway to the door.
Dad reached for the doorbell. The one light that wasn’t on, the porch light, flickered to life. A young woman, about thirty years old, opened the wood door. She did not open the glass storm door. The resemblance was uncanny. Lori Roth. Same hair, wavy and auburn. Same eyes, round and hazel. Same eyelashes, long and thick. Same chin, pointy with a clef.
“May I help you?” she said loudly, her voice penetrating the glass door.
“Is Scott home? I’m an old friend from Upstate New York,” I yelled. “I’m—we’re—working on an old missing-persons case that we think Scott can
help us with.”
She unlocked the glass door, wedging it open about six inches. “Okay. He’s working in his office upstairs right now. What are your names? I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“I’m Susan Ford, and this is my dad, Will Ford. I am . . . was friends with his sister, Lori.”
She closed the wood door. But not all the way. Three minutes later she swung open the wood door and stepped outside.
“He can’t see you right now. He’s on a call. He asked me to take your phone number and he’ll give you a call.”
“We’re only in town for a couple of days,” Dad said. “We are happy to wait out here until he finishes his phone call.”
“Please go. He made it pretty clear he doesn’t want to talk to you tonight.”
“Are you his daughter?” I asked.
“Yes. Amanda—Mandy.”
“Nice to meet you, Mandy. You look just like your aunt—Lori,” I said.
“So I’ve been told.” She smiled coyly and the resemblance became even more pronounced. “I haven’t seen her in years. But we keep in touch through Facebook and Instagram.”
“Can you let your dad know we just want to ask him a few questions? He’s not in any trouble. We just need him to fill in some blanks about an old case we are working on,” I said, scribbling my phone number on a page in my note pad.
Mandy took the paper and tucked it into her jeans pocket. “I’ll be sure to give this to him.”
When we got halfway down the walkway, I turned around. Except for one lamp-lit room on the second floor and the flickering of a television on the first floor, the house was now completely dark.
“I don’t know, Dad. This might have been a wasted trip. If I was a betting girl, I would put long odds on getting a phone call from him.”
“Maybe we pay a visit to the dealership.”
The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon Page 15